


Untouched

by oneforyourfire



Series: Xiukai Marrieds [2]
Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Dirty Talk, M/M, Webcam/Video Chat Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-31 00:16:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8555254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneforyourfire/pseuds/oneforyourfire
Summary: Minseok still has 5 days, and that’s still too much time. (marrieds have webcam sex au)





	

**Author's Note:**

> an expansion on my shiritori submission
> 
> title from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ykW4rtW2eu0)

Smiling, Jongin—an ocean and so many awful hours away—plops down on their bed. Sleep-rumpled, stunningly sleep-disheveled, he’s cross-legged, dressed in a faded t-shirt, boxers, the laptop balanced near his feet, tilted so that Minseok can see the softness of his smile in the morning sun.

It’s a lazy Saturday, and he’s just woken up, had wanted to do this first thing in the morning, make the best start of this day. 

It’s taken several tries, Minseok’s calm spoken then typed instructions on Skype for them to get to this point.

But they have audio and visual now—at the same time—and Jongin is smiling, looking achingly handsome and so perfectly his. 

Minseok’s heart clenches painfully with affection.

It’s been too long.

Jongin’s been sending him texts, pictures of his breakfast, lunch, dinner, their puppy Mandu, the changing leaves on his evening walks around their neighbohood. His face, too, when Minseok requests it, always smiling, always with a cheerful caption—wishing him well, reminding him to eat, to stay warm, reminding him that Jongin and Mandu both miss him very much and are gonna smother the fuck out of him when he comes back, there’s really no escaping it, his boys have missed him too much.

Minseok still has 5 days, and that’s still too much time.

But Jongin’s smile is gorgeous and genuine, all warm eyes and scrunched nose and blindingly white teeth. It’s almost too beautiful, would be—Minseok thinks—if he didn’t know just how stunning it is in the flesh. But that’s the entire point of this, after all. Substituting this because he can’t see it in the flesh.

Good as this is, it isn't enough. Reminds him too much of gourmet food from unfamiliar restaurants, foreign leather chairs in a desks that aren’t his own, the harsh clipped monotone of English, empty and unsatisfactory as the chill of his too-cold, too-empty hotel bed. It reminds him too much of the ocean, the hours, the commitments keeping them apart. 

And he hates it. 

“I’ve missed you, beautiful,” Minseok says by way of greeting, and Jongin eyes crinkle in an even softer smile.

It’s hard to sleep without you, he means. I miss the way your skin smells, the way your voice sounds, the way your kiss tastes. I love you, and this hurts, he aches to add. Is scared to add.

“You’re not allowed to look sad,” Jongin decides after a beat, ruffling his hair with a faint pout that Minseok yearns to taste. “Not when I can’t kiss it better.” A pause, a self-deprecating swipe at his nose for his own cheesiness. His broad shoulders roll and hunch beneath his shirt in something so shy and so beautiful and so deferential and so vulnerable, and Minseok feels aching with the need to hold him. “I miss you, too,” Jongin adds. “So much.”

Last night, he’d sent Minseok a picture, then a video file. Jongin in the throes of passion, his head thrown back, eyes closed, lips parted, throat cast in sharp shadows, the gorgeous, golden skin glistening with sweat, heaving with want.

Thinking of you, he’d sent. Missing you. So much. 

And he’d called him just two days prior, Jongin shy and bumbling at first but warming up to it in time, breathily describing just how exactly he wanted to be taken, how badly he wanted Minseok to fuck him trembling, fuck him sobbing, Minseok promising in the drunkenness of lust to never ever leave, never ever make Jongin have to take care of himself again.

I’m yours, he’d told him on the phone. Take me, I’m yours. Want you to take me.

And now, in the present time, Minseok’s night, Jongin’s early morning, Minseok struggles to reconcile that Jongin with the soft, quiet man before him now—his voice warm, increasingly animated, lilting as he talks about the new students he’s been training, the new tricks Mandu has learned, how the kimchi ahjumma keeps asking about him, saying she misses his handsome face even though it’s only been a week and she isn’t married to Minseok like Jongin is, so she isn’t entitled to his face like Jongin is.

Jongin pauses, wrinkles his nose again, and Minseok just wants to kiss it. Says as much to watch Jongin smile shyly, then bite his lower lip. On his lap, Jongin’s fingers clench and unclench into the fabric of his boxers, and he exhales a breath, shoulders squaring, stretching the white palm trees on his Hollywood shirt. His fingers still clench and unclench once, twice as Minseok waits for him to speak first.

“I’ve missed you,” Jongin repeats. Then “I’ve been thinking of you.” And he tilts his head slightly back, throat bobbing as he swallows. His legs spread, and he tugs his bottom lip between his teeth. A nervous tell. Or arousal. Or both. Minseok finds himself shifting restlessly on his too-cold, too-empty hotel bed. “Want you—want you to tell me how you want me, want it.”

Minseok swallows, too, and Jongin slides one clenched, trembling hand down his thigh, the other along chest, brushing, shy, cursory, slow, beautiful. 

“Tell me how you want me,” Jongin repeats, deeper, slower as he kneads his own inner thigh, teases a thumb over his nipple, breathes past parted lips.

And it’s so much better seeing it in real time, Minseok decides, the way that Jongin falls into this, limbs loosening, jaw slackening, eyes lidding as his fingertips dance over the fabric near his crotch. Tracing, teasing, taunting. 

Arousal—hot and heavy and heady and debilitating—jolts through Minseok’s body, a tight, delicious ache, and his hand stumbles to the front of his own boxers. He matches his stroke to Jongin’s, groaning past bitten lips as he watches Jongin touch with more intent, less finesse. 

“Come on, yeobo,” Jongin breathes, and his fingers are grazing the waistband of his boxers, teasing, torturing—himself, Minseok. “Tell me, please. I need to hear it.” 

“Just like that.” And his voice is so low, stained with desperation already. “Fuck, I love your cock, Jongin. It’s my fucking favorite cock. “ A pause, a moan as he touches himself, watches Jongin touch himself, too. “Wanted to ask you to stop touching yourself,” he confesses in a hiss. “Because I’d get jealous.”

Jongin’s chest hitches with a shivery breath, and he bites his bottom lip, strokes himself again, nice and slow, still through his underwear. The webcam is just barely good enough to capture the way he tents the fabric of his underwear, the way his cock jerks into his own palm as he presses the heel of his palm down, grinds once, twice, thrice. His neck rolls back with a heavier, headier, hotter, hotter moan. “It’s yours, yeobo. My cock—your cock; it’s yours. Tell me how to touch it; it's yours.”

He’s reaching into his boxers, letting just the tip peek past the waistband of the plaid material. Engorged and flushed and utterly gorgeous, his cock—Minseok’s, Minseok’s cock, Jongin had fucking sworn—pulses heavily as he strokes once, groans Minseok’s name.

“Please,” he says. “More. Please.”

And Minseok groans, too. And fuck, he’s pretty sure it’s love, the heady, heavy, heavy affection and possesion and painful vulnerability that lances through him, jolts up his spine to squeeze his chest painfully tight. 

“Slower,” he says, and Jongin moans richly as he strokes himself luxuriously, pulling his boxers far enough down for Minseok to see. The muscles in his stomach tense as he gasps through the caress, drags his thumb deliberately along the flushed, engorged head. 

And God, he’s so fucking hard already. 

“Yours,” he moans. “For you.” 

“Yes. _Mine_.”

And it isn’t enough, even like this. It isn’t enough. Minseok still wants more—to feel the tremble of Jongin’s arousal with his fingertips, to taste the heady sweetness of his moans. Wants him here in his bed, where he should be, wants those plush lips dragging over his skin, wants the whisper of his soft hair and the warmth of his soft skin, wants him here, his to hold.

“Please,” Jongin whimpers. “Please, keep—keep talking.”

“Show me. It’s mine show me.”

Jongin slows it down, tugs his cock completely free, a fluid, wanton grace in the way he grinds into his own fist, the way his body loosens and breaks with pleasure. His spine bows and his legs tremble and his face pinches with pleasure and _fuck_ Minseok wants him—needs him, right here, right fucking _now_. 

“Tell me. Please _tell_ me.” 

“Nipples, too,” Minseok urges because if Minseok were doing this, touching Jongin’s cock at his leasure, he’d be sucking on them, licking his way across his golden chest and then biting to make him arch and writhe and pitch. 

Minseok isn’t there, can’t have that, but Jongin is so eager to follow his suggestion. And the muscles in his chest, his stomach, his arms ripple as he tugs off his shirt. He sucks his fingers into his mouth briefly, then pinches and twists, writhing all the while into his hand. 

“Yeobo,” he moans, weak, wanton, wrecked. “Yeobo. Please.” 

Minseok’s cock pulses in exquisite, beautiful agony at the sharp pitch of Jongin’s moans. His strokes tightens, quickens, and an ocean, so many hours and commitments way, Jongin is falling apart—just for him. 

“Want you inside me,” Minseok confesses. “I’ve tried my fingers, even bought a toy, but it’s not as good. Nothing beats your cock. Want you to fuck me, when I come home,” Minseok groans, stroking just slightly faster, his chest heaving at the pressure. “As soon as I set down my luggage. Want you to hold me up against the wall and fuck me as hard as you can.”

Jongin jerks, whimpers. His hand trembles so badly, he threatens to collapse as he pants and strokes and whines. “Yes,” he agrees or begs or moans. “Yes, want that. Want that _so_ badly. Please, _please_. Let me fuck you. Let me fuck you, yeobo.” 

Groping blindly in the nightstand by his bed, Minseok finds his travel-sized bottle of lube, scrambles to squeeze it on his fingers as Jongin slumps forward to watch, tugging his cock faster, thighs tense and eyelashes fluttering. Minseok eases two fingers in quick succession, works the third inside with a breathless moan as Jongin curses reverently.

It isn’t the same like this, his own fingers a poor substitute for Jongin’s fingers, his cock. Too short, too thin, they can't curl just right, he’s already told him, and frustration bubbles in his throat, spills forth in an embarrassingly high-pitched whine.

“Fuck me” Minseok moans, entirely too hoarse and too drenched with need, and Jongin fucking _keens_ in response, squeezes his cock hard to keep from coming, Minseok sees.

His entire body is gorgeously taut with tension, legs trembling, eyes squeezing shut, chest heaving. “Yeobo,” he says.

“Tell me how, too,” Minseok says, too. “Tell me how you’d take me, Jongin. Tell me—fuck—tell me how you’re taking me.”

He curls his fingers, fans them apart when Jongin doesn’t respond, just watches, slack-jawed as Minseok fucks himself faster, deeper, more showy. His spine bows, neck lolls at the slick friction, the delicious stretch, and Jongin strokes himself faster, deeper, too, gasping as he watches, biting his bottom lip nearly white as he groans for him.

“Jongin,” he moans, desperation lacing every syllable. He blames the absence, the painful, heart-stuttering affection that Jongin inspires, the fact that his hand isn’t enough anymore, not after he’s known the sweet ruin of Jongin’s skin on his own. “Yeobo, darling, baby, love, love please.”

“Deeper,” Jongin coaxes, still fucking squeezing his cock to keep from coming. His thumb trembles as it stumbles up along his shaft, and his thighs undulate as he thrusts into his own fist. His breath hitches so heavily with the deepest, richest, most needy moan. “Deep—fuck—as deep as you can. Take as much of me as you—” He breaks off with a shuddery, wet inhale.

And fuck, Minseok can practically taste his desperate, desperate need. He’s so achingly close.

And fuck, fuck fuck; it nearly undoes him. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , Minseok lets his other hand slide downwards to stroke himself, too, tugging, tugging tugging as he fucks his fingers faster.

Spreading his legs, nearly upending the laptop and the end of the bed, he slams his fingers faster, deeper, deeper, deep as he can, strokes himself, too, fights to keep his fluttering eyelids open to watch how Jongin pants, how he clumsily tries to match Minseok’s frantic pace.

His lush lips are so achingly red and open in the most gorgeous moan—yeobo, yeobo, yeobo, please, oh God, oh fuck. And he’s so fucking close, his entire gorgeous, golden body wracked with tremors, the most decadent portrait of ruined desire, and _fuck_ —

Overcome, Minseok lets his head loll back and Jongin curses again, reverent again, but louder—so fucking _hot_

“Come on, give it to me,” he groans, baring his throat, arching his spine, curling his fingers on the retreat. 

“ _Yeobo_.” 

“On me,” Minseok rasps, the words squeezing out past helplessly trembling, parted lips. “Come for me, Jongin. Come on me.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Jongin agrees in a hiss, arching so sharply, quivering so gorgeously in acquiescence or submission or desire. His eyes clench shut, and his chin knocks against his own shoulder. He’s utterly lost in pleasure, and he looks best like this—suspended on the edge—just just just for him. “Wanna mark you, hyung,” Jongin manages in another reverent hiss. “Wanna lick it off. Wanna—let me, please please let me.”

Minseok shifts restlessly on the mattress, fighting harder to keep his eyes open, his entire body aching and thrumming with the need to see—see Jongin come.

“Jongin, _come_.”

Trembling heavily, beautifully, perfectly, he does, choking on a shaky, stuttering whine of _Minseok, yeobo, hyung, please please please_ as his body seizes with pleasure, and Minseok follows immediately afterwards, the pleasure reaching a fever pitch as he watches Jongin’s fists clench in the sheets—their sheets, watches Jongin’s cock—Minseok’s cock, Jongin had promised—jerk as it streaks across his quivering stomach.

Beautiful and complete his, and Minseok groans the praise as the pleasure overwhelms him, pushes him back into the mattress with a heaving whine of Jongin’s name. 

It takes him hours, years, millennia to recover, longer to move. 

And Jongin is already waiting for him. 

Flushed with the afterglow, weak, clumsy, he collapses in front of webcam, his loose limbs flopping as he blinks at Minseok heavily, sleepily.

He’s smiling again—soft and wobbly with satiation and affection and maybe almost love—and it’s too beautiful. Almost, or maybe close enough.

**Author's Note:**

> idk i finally xiukaied again and they're in love now, ig :)


End file.
